public apology (or, why most people hate monks)
I want separate twilight
a room with no candles, plates, phones, or music
a glass ceiling to smash when my head's full
I want tiny hand-
painted stars, not the endless, drifting milky way
I have no desire to put my eye up to
any telescope or to
understand how
a digital clock survives on 50 to 60 hertz
which trust me isn't much, a flicker
at the next rest stop if you're some-
body who counts miles
I'm not you and I'm not
a scientist, I need my little kingdom of sleep and pretzels
more than the whole world
my supernatural bed
no matter where it is, floating down some rain-
made river or being carried in pieces up mountains
on the backs of monks;
I am sorry
sorry that my obligation is so
rooted to this room, and that I'll never govern
anything worth stealing, but you must know
somewhere
you had this
choice too.
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Author's Note
The world can be a harsh place which is why I stay away from it as much as possible. It does have its lures though, and so most people willingly march right into its dirty heart. Occasionally one of those people sees me, safe if a bit lonely in my room, and he/she attacks me. I imagine they're thinking something like "If I have to get shit on, he should too." As indicated at the end of this poem, I'd like to remind those people, remind everyone, that you all had that same choice. If you want what I have it's simple enough to obtain, just give up "everything".
Other stories by Peter Schwartz
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The imagery you create here is effective. The presence of the speaker is solid: "I have no desire to put my eye up to
any telescope or to
understand how..."
the closing is quite powerful - the obligation is rooted to the room. This lends, as has been shown throughout the piece, a solitary feel - making the two final lines almost very stark. Great piece.
Thanks very much, Sam. I'm sure plenty of my old poems have emotion in them but these days I'm making a conscious effort to use my heart more than my mind when I write. So your words are super-appreciated. Like my incoherent grandma used to say, "It ain't all about thinking."
hmmm. sounds too familiar, too much like... me!! ! Lovely!
Haha, a hundred thousand loners can't be wrong...
oh, this is lovely, the images arresting, the manifesto of Other
Thanks very much, Gary. I hope someone on here uses that. The Manifesto of Other is a great name for an essay. Take care, man.
heartfelt